


A weapon in need of care.

by Raieth



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes is dead, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, F/M, Female Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers doesn’t know what to do, The Winter Soldier is just a weapon, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27992568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raieth/pseuds/Raieth
Summary: When Steve Rogers finally tracks down Bucky, he had been recaptured by HYDRA. Without the control words and a mind full of secrets they do the only thing they can, they wipe him. But this time theyerasethe memories not just block them.The Asset has had new handlers before. But he thinks this one is the dumbest one yet.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 87





	A weapon in need of care.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little idea I had to write from an almost inhuman, yet observant and smart, perspective. Also wanted reader insert but not from your perspective.

The Winter Soldier Asset #0 ( _code-named Bucky, Sergeant James Barnes_ ), stood in the back of the room, under armed guard, listening as his primary handler ( _code-named Steve Rogers, Captain America_ ) explained the new handling method now that he was confined to this new base.

“I’m sorry Bucky but it was the only way to get them to let us stay.”

He does not clench or grind his teeth. He is better trained than that. His tools were being taken. He was not to carry them between missions. He was not allowed to care for them himself either. A shiver of fear slips down his spine. He was not a very good weapon without his weapons.

His handler sighs and leads him to where his tools will be taken. The guards seem to have relaxed some as he is complying. He wants to scoff. Noncompliance with his handler is not worth the trouble.

He glanced at the blond man. He thinks he hates this handler the most. Wishes he had killed him when he was a mission instead ( ~~Handler for a mission? When had that ever happened?~~ ).

The handler waved him through a heavy reinforced door labeled “Armory”.

The room was small and white with a waist high metal bench mounted along the left wall and a metal grate with bullet resistant glass and a low counter on the back wall next to a truly massive reinforced door.

He can hear the sound of a metal grinder stopping before a woman turns to face them. She steps up to the window and he is momentarily caught by the shine of her hair before she smiles at him.

He was confused by her joy.

“Hey, oh, you must be the new guy, yeah?” She rests her hands on the counter. The opening above it was big enough he could have pulled her through it. Small thing with grease on her hands.

She flicks a glance at his handler and her smile tightens unnaturally to falseness. “Captain Rogers. How’s the paint job?” Her voice is three degrees colder.

His handler looks away. Embarrassment in the line of his shoulders. Disgusting, such a weak hand on his leash.

“Not here for me today ma’am.” He waves the asset forward. “Bucky isn’t allowed to have weapons on the compound. So we’re here to drop them off.”

One eyebrow lifted her arms crossing over her chest. “So the idiots are idiots what a surprise.”

The asset straightens up at the disapproving and factual tone. This (weapon tech?) woman verbally disagreed with a direct order and wasn’t punished?

She frowns for a moment longer. “All right then Captain Rogers, you may leave so we can begin.”

The handler shifted “Well, uh,”

She slapped her hand on the metal counter. “Would you force Black Widow to remove every weapon on her in company?”

The weak handler flinched.

The tech smirked. “You can wait outside.”

The blond man sighed then looked back at the asset as he turned to leave. “I’ll be outside Buck.”

He just watched.

The tech seemed to brighten once he was gone. “Hi, sorry about all this. But orders are orders right?”

He almost sagged in relief. “Affirmative.” He agreed, orders were orders. Everyone in this Avengers group seemed to lack that basic understanding.

Her eyes narrowed just for a heartbeat. But she smiled again. “You can hand me the rifle first then unload on the bench. Makes things go smoother, yeah?”

He hesitated just a hair before unslinging his primary sniper rifle and handing it over. He watched closely. That tool was the difference between succeeding and failing 80% of the time.

She quickly and efficiently unloaded the weapon and ran slender hands along every surface. Frowning when she found evidence of heavy wear on the rifle.

“When was the last time this was serviced fully?” She fingered the deep oil filled grooves in the stock.

“Unknown.”

She frowned deeper. “Educated guess?”

The asset thought about it. Not since before being transferred to the American Hydra base after the fall of the Soviet Union. The Americans were incompetent and had no qualified weapon tech. “1990 was last confirmed year.”

She whistled and glanced at him with approval. “Then you are are to be commended soldier. She’s in good shape considering.” She placed the rifle down with care and looked back up at him. “Let’s see the rest.”

It was a special form of torture. To be made bare like this. Hand guns, grenades, and all of his blades. Even the carbon fibre ones hidden in the seams of his clothes. Given into those small grease stained hands.

He tried hiding them at first. And she just raised an eyebrow and stared at where they were hidden. “You keep one and its my head on the block, so just hand em over nice and quiet like.”

But despite her lack of give, she was careful with his tools. Checked every single one. Complementing and criticizing as needed. It made something strange float through his mind. This tech appreciated those who cared for their weapons ( ~~How’s the paint job?~~ ).

He stopped, there was only one weapon left. The metal of his arm shifted as he flexed it. Removing it was so, so painful, he hesitated, risking punishment.

The sound caught her attention immediately and her bright eyes snapped to the shining and dirt streaked metal. She had so far been ignoring it. There was something almost hungry in her gaze now.

Her hands twitched on the counter a small smile quirking up on side of her mouth. “That’s not a weapon. I don’t take prosthetics.”

He frowned and almost opened his mouth. But then paused as her finger lifted off the counter. What did she mean? Not a weapon? That was a- his eyes widened. A technicality. The letter of the order. Risky but not severely punishable.

He couldn’t help return the small smirk she wore as she saw he understood.

“Alright. Now that’s everything? Don’t forget to give yourself enough time to pick everything back up before missions.”

He nodded then hesitated. He wanted to ask if she would be done before his next mission but questions were forbidden.

Her eyes narrowed slightly again, she was observant. “I am just a lowly weapon tech, you can ask me anything. I do not have the authority to punish you.”

He could feel the surprise on his face before he wiped it clean. Make that too observant. “I don’t know when my next mission is.”

Her fingers drummed on the counter. “Understandable. I’ll prioritize your stuff until it’s all been checked at least.”

He nodded. “Acceptable.”

She waved the word away. “None of this is acceptable. But-“

“Orders are orders.” He finished.

She huffed a sad laugh. “Well, you better get going. I think today is gonna be a long one for you.”

He relaxed his shoulders just a little, the metal arm sagging low. He was so tired.

He straightened back up immediately, about-faced and opened the door.

The weak annoying handler stood up straight and with a sad smile herded the asset to his bedroom ( ~~cell~~ ).

The sad noises were so aggravating.

* * *

Three weeks, he had been trapped without missions for three weeks.

Forced to ‘play house’, with his handler. He was without his tools ( ~~parts of himself~~ ) and forbidden from leaving the compound ( ~~stale air choking~~ ). Forced to wear soft clothing ( ~~tearing under metal fingers, restricting movement~~ ), forced to eat with the group ( ~~strange fearful weak, never enough calories~~ ).

“Come on Bucky, you loved this song.” The handler almost whined as music from the 1930’s played overhead.

He didn’t clench his fists. He didn’t grind his teeth. He stood at attention in the shadowed corner of the main room because they would not let him stay in his cell full time.

The handler looked so sad, liquid blue eyes shining with grief. “There must be something you want?”

Want? Oh he WANTED alright. His jaw tightened. And the handler straightened to attention. The asset flinched back. Could never stop the flinch. Couldn’t be trained out of it.

The blond fool flinched as well. Pulling away. Then he sighed and his shoulders dropped, a hand running over his face tiredly. “I’m not gonna punish you for asking for something. I promise.”

The asset said nothing. That was a trick he learned early.

The handler straightened and looked proper angry. “What do you want to do?”

“To go outside.” He replied immediately. Compliance at the risk of punishment. Something he might be able to have, if only for a moment.

The man startled slightly. “That’s it?” Then he smiled, “This door opens Buck.”

He turned to the large sliding door and opened it. “You just can’t leave the compound.” He said apologetically.

The asset hesitated. The compound included outside?

That sad look look crossed the handlers face again. “You can go out whenever you want.”

He shifted forward, still wary of the trap. But so far there had been no punishment, only restriction.

The handler stepped back, hands up and a small smile on his increasingly familiar face.

The asset stepped outside for the first time in three weeks and couldn’t help closing his eyes at the fresh breeze on his face. It smelled of grass and trees and sunlight.

He breathed it deeply. Afraid of it being taken at any moment. He was so tired, constant wariness, not ever knowing what was going to happen next. The waiting for punishment and missions. The cameras in every room and the pity in every face.

There was sunlight warming his body and flowers on the wind.

There was a noise behind him, and he tightened back up and turned to receive punishment for his enjoyment.

The handler looked sadder than he had ever seen him. Hand outstretched and tears on his cheeks.

He flinched back and the handler sobbed once. He froze, unsure of what was going to happen.

“Oh god Bucky. Why didn’t you tell me this was what you needed?”

He pulled away confused. This wasn’t a need. This was a greedy risk.

“What else do you need?”

The asset did need one thing. It was a huge risk though. He couldn’t control the slight flinch of his hands.

“Tell me what you need.” It wanted to be firm, but couldn’t with that wet waver.

He took the risk. So many risks they would kill him eventually. “I need more calories.”

His handler frowned. “You’re hungry? Wait, calories?”

He frowned slightly, was his handler even dumber than he thought? “I require 4000 calories per day when inactive.”

“4000? That’s twice what-“ He covers his mouth looking sick. “And when active?”

“Between 8 and 10 thousand.” Was this really just stupidity? Was that why he was being starved?

“Shit, Bucky. Why didn’t you say anything? You must be starving.” He started backpedaling into the building.

“Calories are withheld at handlers descretion.” He replied confused. Not quite aware he had spoken aloud.

“I’m not-“ he ran his hands over his face. “Right, they tried to tell me. Fuck.”

He was confused. Why wasn’t he being punished?

“Okay, okay.” The handler drew to his full height. Face firming to prepare to give orders.

He straightened automatically. Ready to comply.

“What can you do to feel more secure at this location in just thirty minutes?”

“Patrol the perimeter of my leash for security flaws.” He didn’t even need to think about it. He was confined to a few rooms and wasn’t allowed to even check those rooms properly. It was nerve wracking.

That sad crumpled expression flashed before the handler sucked it up again. Maybe he wasn’t completely useless.

“See that fence? That’s the boundary line. Do not cross it, do not interfere with any patrols. You have thirty minutes.”

He tensed, the rush of a mission filling his veins. He shifted up onto the balls of his feet. He couldn’t help but bare his teeth, trembling for the release signal.

“Go.”

The asset ran for the fence, legs pumping in a ground eating lope he could sustain for hours. Once he had a clear visual he turned to run parallel to the boundary line. Eyes sharp for any damage to the fence, to the ground around it.

His head swivelled to keep an eye on the building, the fence and grass between them.

The wind tugged his hair away from his face and his blood sang with the exertion of moving after being still for so long.

This compound was bigger than he thought. With a surge of hidden exhilaration he sped up. The ground flying under him.

He could see a figure on the roof. The aerial unit code-named Falcon. Patrol, do not interfere.

There was a paved area ahead as he rounded this side of the compound. Looked like an unloading zone. Possible point of weakness.

He slowed to a jog to more closely inspect the fence gates. Automatic, no rust, guards watching him pass, confirming his passage into radios. Secure.

He sped back up. Twenty minutes left.

There are more outside doors on this side of the building, and many windows. Fence secure, building not. More faces watching through the glass. No patrol, point of weakness.

Ten minutes left.

The final side is more secure, solid concrete with small high windows and sturdy fencing. More patrols. Weapons held ready, confirming his passage. Secure.

Two minutes.

He rounds the corner and turns to meet the building once more. His handler is waiting for him.

He almost slides to a stop. Thirty minutes exactly. His breath comes in great bellows and he is so tired and thirsty and hungry.

“Perimeter fence secure.”

His handler smiles at him. “Well done. Come on let’s get you fed and watered.”

Endorphins flood his system at the praise. And he trots behind the handler, blood still pumping from the run.

So good to run again.

“Go on, eat and drink until you are satisfied.”

He hesitated before settling in to fill the burning emptiness inside him.

Maybe there was something to asking this handler for things. He did seem like kind of an idiot ( ~~punk~~ ).

* * *

  
It’s late at night the next day and he was securing the rooms around his cell to try and settle the jittery feeling inside when he heard voices.

“They were trying to erase his brain for good. You know that. Just be grateful he can function at all.” It was a woman’s voice. Husky, kind and mocking all at once. Familiar somehow.

“I just want him to feel safe.” That was his idiot handler.

He silently scoffs at the same time the woman does outloud. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What do you mean?”

There is a great dramatic sigh. “You’re an idiot Rogers. He has no weapons, no mission, and no firm rules. He literally can’t feel safe right now.” He knew her voice ( ~~blood and gunpowder~~ ).

“But,”

“Either you freeze him, put him to work, or give him a hidey hole he can fully defend.”

His handler sighed. “I just miss him Nat.”

She laughed. A bitter sound. “Bucky Barnes has been dead for a long time Cap. At best you might find a person under the winter soldier that shares some of his memories.”

“He thinks I’m his handler. I hate it.”

She sighs again. “He needs stability. That requires a handler. That means you. Look, he’s already made progress.”

“You think so?”

Another quiet laugh. “He asked to go outside. That was a huge risk for him. Months of healing kinda risk.” At least someone understood.

“I, I just don’t know what to do.”

There is a moment of silence. “It’s the little things. No punishment for flinching, for taking more food, for looking around. It just takes time.”

“I wish we had found him sooner. He remembered me Nat and now he doesn’t.”

She sighed again. But neither spoke again so he retreated to his cell. More confused than before.

* * *

It was two days later, ( ~~two days of timid sneaking outside during the hottest part of the day to feel the sun on ice cold bones~~ ) when the handler approached him with sad purpose.

“You have a mission.”

All his attention was focused now. “Ready to comply.”

“We’ve found one of Hydra’s remaining officers and a kill order has come through.”

He tightened in eagerness. Finally something he understood. “Who’s the target?”

That ever present sadness tinged into regret. “I have the details in the board room. You’ll get them once you’re ready to go. I’ll meet you outside the armory. Go get ready soldier.”

He saluted and jogged to his room to dress properly. Then quickly made his way to his weapons.

The tech beamed a huge smile at him. “Hey, I heard the good news.” She shifted a heavy looking box into the window.

He pulled it closer. His blades. He couldn’t help but pause as he touched them. He had felt so naked.

“Go on, go on.” The tech laughed. “I sharpened and oiled them all. Refreshed the non-reflective coating and rewrapped handles where needed.”

He lifted the first and inspected it. It looked almost new. Only the scratches in the pommel from his metal hand to give it away as his.

“I had to replace one ceramic blade, the edge was gone, but everything else is the same.”

He quickly secreted them away on his person. Body finally feeling something closer to normal.

Once they were put away she slid his handguns over. They were in perfect condition.

“Yeah your hand does a number on the grips. So I upgraded them to something hopefully a little more durable.”

He holstered them after checking the action. It didn’t stick at all anymore.

She put the rifle up. Small hand running along the length of it.

He took it and looked it over.

She smiled at the gun. “She was a pleasure to work with. Sturdy, well made. I changed out the stock and buffed out the scratches. New carbon coat should help prevent more.”

He swung it over his shoulder. Chest filled with something he couldn’t name. No other tech had ever treated his weapons this way. Ever. He didn’t know what to do.

She laughed and smiled, “Such an enthusiastic thank you. You’re welcome.”

He stood at attention not able to do anything else.

Her smile softened slightly. “Take good care of them on your mission.”

He nodded and exited the room. Following his handler to the briefing.

* * *

The mission went very smoothly. It seemed like a test run. Like the Americans did before. To test his skills and control.

It didn’t matter. But he felt soothed. His purpose was being fulfilled.

He almost smiled at the tech when he turned in his weapons. She would care for them well.

Her eyes strayed to his arm though. And her hands gripped the oil rag she was cleaning his knives with as she collected them.

He did nothing about it. It couldn’t be a weapon.

She was still full of joy and sent him away when the weapons were collected.

It was the beginning of a pattern. With the test mission over, now he was heading out almost once a week.

Sometimes solo, sometimes in a squad.

Gear up, kill, gear down, wait.

The waiting was getting harder.

Still not allowed to secure a space, still unsure of the rules. Not allowed to unwind from missions like he was used to. He was winding tighter with no release.

And now his arm was acting up.

Sticky and slow. It needed maintenance, badly. And the tech’s concerned glances grew worse as she noticed when no one else did.

After a week with no missions, his handler approached him with a curious expression.

“Would you be interested in something a little different?”

He tilted his head. This handler liked responses to questions.

“We want you to fully secure this wing of the compound.” There was something strange in his voice.

He stilled.

“No weapons, but I want a full briefing of every security hole, or weakness.” Something like banked anger blended with grief.

“Timetable?” Questions hadn’t been punished yet.

“As long as you need, but they would prefer under a week.”

So this was an order from higher up. He quickly began sketching out his initial plans.

“One more thing.” He reached into a pocket. “You’ll have a direct line to Friday during this.”

He hesitated. Friday? The AI that ran the facility? Wasn’t she everywhere already?

He took the ear piece and put it in.

“Hello Sergeant Barnes.” His whole body flinched at that.

There was silence around him.

The handler swallowed and looked away, exposing the earpiece he was also wearing. “You are to eat and sleep as needed for optimal functioning. Friday is your technician for this mission.”

“Acknowledged.”

The handler looked so tired and waved him off. “You can start at your leisure.”

He nodded and turned to go outside first.

“How would you like me to address you?”

He twitched, “I am the Winter Soldier Asset.” He whispered just loud enough for the mic.

There was silence as he began his initial survey.

* * *

Having the AI in his head was, _weird_ , he decided. She asked strange questions and relevant ones almost at random.

Always asking for verbal responses and explanations of what he was doing.

He wasn’t sure how she kept him talking.

“I feel,” he floundered in their conversation. She was patient with him. Always let him find the words. “Uncared for.”

She hummed. “How so?”

He hefted himself into the ceiling panel with no trouble.

“I am a weapon.”

This was part of the largest security hole he could find. A conduit for the electronics running almost the whole length of the wing.

“How are you not cared for?” She prompted softly. Already aware of what he was doing in the ceiling.

“A weapon needs care as a weapon.” He couldn’t explain it. His arm hurt, the plates sticking almost audibly some days.

“I wish-“ He stopped. He wished he were his rifle. Polished and cleaned and repaired by hands that cared.

He heard a noise below him.

He shifted to look in the vent. It was the weapon tech. She was cleaning a gun on a small table in a sitting area he had never been to before.

Her delicate hands ran an oil cloth over every part of the gun so carefully. And like every time before, he craved. Craved that care. “Pausing mission for rest.” He blurted out the code phrase before removing the ear piece. This wasn’t part of the mission.

He opened the grate and dropped into the room.

She startled and pointed a gun at him before putting it back down on the table next to the disassembled one with a small laugh. “You scared the shit out of me. I though you were on the other side today?”

He stayed crouched on the floor staring at the disassembled gun.

“What do you need?” Her voice still held that note of concerned joy. Like she really wanted know.

He felt that craving, that hunger to be a weapon in her hands. He lifted his arm, wincing when it locked up slightly.

Her eyes widened and she reached out to touch before hesitating. Slipping onto her knees in front of him.

“It hurts, please.” He whispered. A sinking feeling plunging through him. He wanted so badly.

Her small hands touched the metal with that same awe she handled his rifle. Clever fingers automatically seeking every joint.

Her attention focused. “Do the plates open?”

He _flexed_ and they lifted like the scales of a beast a high pitch squeal making him flinch.

She ducked a hand into her toolbox next to the table and pulled out a flashlight. “Oh dear. This is bad.” She reached blindly for a bottle of oil. “Is it water- no wait that’s blood and pus?”

He trembled to keep the panels open in his awkward crouch.

Her hands stilled and she looked at him all over. She moved away. “On the couch, sitting up.”

He moved to obey, mind falling into a strange place. Her small gentle hands moved him until he was right where she wanted him.

“Open.” He complied.

Carefully, never letting her fingers enter a pinch point she began applying oil to every movement point starting at the top.

“Close them.” Smoother, that time. “Open.”

Eventually her hands let him know to open or close the plates by the direction she rubbed them.

She mumbled to herself as she worked. Full of praise for its construction and scorn for its hard to access places.

“Why does it cut into you like that? There’s no reason for it. More than half of this blood is from your shoulder, that’s just bad design really.”

He flinched as her cleaning tool scored along active nerve endings. His head ducked prepared for a blow.

Her hand gently pet across the top of his hair. “Sorry sorry, but I have to get this plasma out or you could get infected.”

He stared at her in shock, no one touched him. Not ever without pain.

She was hyper focused though. And shifting him around so she could get to his back.

“I can see the strain in your back, there must be a manual override to hold the plates open yeah?” Her fingers trailed gently around the scar tissue and he shuddered, the plates shivering with him.

She paused. Everything falling still. Her hand stroked once more along the narrow strip of flesh not hidden by his shirt.

He couldn’t help but press into it with another shiver.

He felt rather than heard her shaky exhale. Before she motioned him to open the plates and she started searching rather than cleaning.

“Yeah, yeah I think that might be it. Gonna need a special something though. Hmm.” She motioned the plates closed and moved him to face her.

Her face was concerned. “I have to make something to do this properly. But I can finish oiling you now. Is it sticking anywhere?”

He leaned back and moved the arm through its range. It stuck in a few places. And every time she stopped him and scraped and oiled with gentle hands until it moved smoothly.

At the end she was just running her oil cloth down the outside, idly trying to buff out decades of marks.

He felt, he felt slow and liquid. Like blood down a wall.

He sighed and sagged against the couch he was on as she stroked up and down the sensitive metal arm.

He watched through slitted eyes as she gave special care to his finger joints.

“Fuck, you’re the most beautiful weapon I’ve ever worked on.”

He sank lower, muscles in his back and shoulder caving under the enormous strain the metal forced upon him. There was something smooth and content in his chest.

Her hands, grease stained and callused slid across his collar bones to his other bare shoulder.

“Metal goes all the way across doesn’t it?” She pulled her hands away curious yet satisfied. “Can you meet me tomorrow? In the evening?”

His head dropped into a nod. Body loose and strange.

Her lips quirked into a smile. “Good. I don’t like leaving my weapons unfinished.”

She stood back from him and gathered her things into the box next to her. She paused to say something but stopped. Her eyes raking over him with a burning curious hunger, lips curling into a pleased smirk before heading out the door leaving him behind.

His arm almost didn’t hurt at all and the sensation was as heady as the loose liquid contentment curling in his gut.

Cleaned and polished. A cared for weapon.

He slipped into sleep without ever realizing it happened.

* * *

His explorations were easier with his arm more mobile. He felt a little less tense a lot more focused.

Friday barely talked to him at all that morning. And before he knew it he was hunting down the weapon tech. She was in the same room as before and smiled at him when he dropped down.

She patted the seat next to her. And he sat obediently. Some of his shoulder stress easing as he settled.

She smiled at him pleased and pulled out a few different tools.

Her hands slid up and he opened the plates. She stuck her tool in and the plates locked and he couldn’t help the sigh as the strain left him.

It felt so good.

She had a number of different tools to get into all the nooks and crannies to clean out the unavoidable dust, dirt and bio matter that built up inside the arm.

This time though, one of her hands always seemed to be touching his body. Small touches to brace herself but he was hyper aware of them.

Her hands were slightly cool and her fingers tended to stroke absently on whatever they touched.

“Damn some of these diodes are ancient. Shit, might not be able to, oh come here you.” Her voice was soft and distracted, stream of consciousness noise that didn’t require him to respond like a person.

He was a weapon in her hands. Just a weapon. Getting cleaned and repaired.

He slowly drifts away. Mind floating on a haze of satisfaction and pleasure.

Soft sounds to match soft touches to match soft thoughts.

He doesn’t quite register when the plates are released to close or when she moves him onto his chest. But the hands stroking his spine feel amazing. And wasn’t he wearing a shirt at some point?

Her fingers, slicked with oil, dig into tight scarred knotted muscles and he sinks further down into bliss.

Her soft babble is coloured with grunts of effort as she works muscles held tight for decades.

There is a ball of sunshine in his gut bleeding liquid warmth through his body. It feels so good.

“Yeah, they did anchor it into your ribs and shoulder blade damn that must have really sucked. The metal must ache in the cold.”

He melts further into the couch with a long relaxed sigh, mind blank and drifting away.

Just a weapon.

* * *

  
It’s a week of slipping away at night before something goes wrong.

The door burst open startling the asset into an abortive lunge. Couldn’t move, weapon tech was holding him down. Safe with the tech. Tech in danger.

His mind splintered sharply, panic and pleasure making it hard to focus.

“What the **fuck** Rogers? You ever heard of knocking? Do you have **any** idea how _**long**_ it takes to get him like this?! **You have just ruined _three goddamn_ hours of work you rampaging barbarian!**”

The asset turned his head to the side and opened his eyes.

His weapon tech was screaming at his handler. She was standing next to the couch he was face down on and the handler was leaning away eyes wide and mouth open. His saw the asset looking.

“Bucky? What?”

“ _Oh fuck you._ ” She said with disgust. She turned back to him as he tried to rise. Her warm, safe hands stroking down his back and arm. “Your maintence isn’t finished. Stay here.”

He relaxed back down. Muscles going limp. He was a good weapon.

He watched the tiny tech push his large handler out of the room. But not fully out of sight or hearing.

“What are you doing here?” She demanded.

“He wasn’t in his room.”

She scoffed. “And that’s a good reason to barge into someone’s personal quarters? What if we’d been fucking? Or he not _allowed_ to do that without permission?”

“Bucky isn’t,” Rogers stammered.

“Isn’t what? Allowed to experience even the _slightest_ bit of pleasure without you?”

There was silence to that comment and the asset huffed once. His handler was an idiot.

“Look, Captain.” She sighed. “The arm isn’t clean. It chews into his flesh and his body is constantly trying to reject it. It has to be cleaned regularly or the blood and plasma gets infected and gums up the gears. There is no way around it. His spine is out of alignment due to the extra weight and honestly he’s been swimming in so much pain, for so many decades that even the _slightest_ lessening of that puts him on an endorphin high to put the most depraved hedonists to shame.” she sighs again.

The asset closed his eyes again. He was patient.

“He’s a good weapon. Ah, not a word, you listen to me. He is a good weapon and he needs proper care.”

“What do you mean?” The handler’s voice was so small.

“He will likely never be a whole person again. I know that’s not what you want to hear. But I’ve seen his scans, the new tests, there’s just nothing left.”

He can hear a muffled sob. “No, they said his memories-“

“No. They were coming back before, because the memories weren’t erased they were blocked. Once the damage was healed the connections were restablished. They were _erasing_ him, he knew too much and they didn’t have the command words.”

He whined with distress. He was allowed, he was still in maintence. His handler sobbed again.

“I’m the weapon tech. My job is to fix weapons. Let me do my job?”

A quiet moment of sobbing.

“Come on you can watch. He really is a beautiful weapon.”

His handler was laughing wetly as they re-entered the room.

His tech crouched next to him her cool hands stroking down his spine. “Good boy.” He arched into it happily chasing the firm press.

Her fingers dug along the muscles opposite his metal arm and he let the breath escape him.

He didn’t mind if the handler was sitting on the floor by his head. This was maintence time not active time.

“There we go. That’s better.” She murmured. “Just pet his hair and scratch his scalp. He basically has a low grade tension headache all the time now.”

The handler’s hand made him flinch but when it didn’t hurt he pressed up into it for more pressure.

He was floating back into his warm space as their hands soothed his hurts.

* * *

Things were different after that. He was checked out properly now for missions. Like a weapon should be. And he wasn’t required to ‘ _play house_ ’ with his handler anymore.

He was checked into the armory. Examined, cleaned, fed and watered by his tech then allowed to just, stop existing.

His handler was still a sad idiot, but now their roles were firmer in his mind, less prone to slipping.

Eventually, he started following his tech around all day, he liked following his tech, she was full of joy and care and warmth wherever she went. Let him help care for the other weapons in her care.

She led him into a board room one day, a secret smile curling her mouth and everyone in it stopped talking.

He glanced around, identifying threats to his tech and escape routes.

“Excuse me? Who the hell are you and what the hell-“

“Yeah I’m gonna stop you right there.”

Surprisingly the executive ( _code-named Ironman_ ) did, shock crossing his face.

“Why have you been denying my part requests?” She demanded arms crossing.

He stayed behind her shoulder, she would indicate if she needed him to act.

“Your parts?” The strangely bearded man sputtered. “Wait, you’re the tech that wants the parts that’ll turn frosty here into a more dangerous monster?”

“Yes.”

That seemed to make everyone pause.

“Wait did you just admit-?”

“Mr. Stark, are you aware that this arm,” she lightly rapped her knuckles on it, letting them clang for effect. “Weighs almost 50 pounds and removes almost half an inch of flesh from his shoulder everyday?”

The man frowned, the asset recognized the look, the look of someone thinking very fast.

“In order to stay attached, it’s been mounted into his collarbone, shoulder blade and most of his ribs. Every time it moves the metal connector points cut into his body. Stressing bone and muscle alike.”

“But that makes no sense-“

She huffs a laugh. “It’s why my weapon looks like he feels no pain. Takes a lot to drown out his base pain levels. So yes, Mr. Stark, I’ve been trying to order parts. So that perhaps he can _breath_ without being sliced into.”

The asset watched the people in the room ( ~~avengers, dangerous, allies?~~ ) grow more and more uncomfortable. He found he enjoyed the looks. Dark pleasure in her control over others.

“Why isn’t Capsicle bringing this up?”

She let her hands drop to her sides. Her knuckles brushing his abs and hip in a subtle pet.

“I am the weapon technician. This is literally my job.”

That comment got lots of uncomfortable looks and shifting.

She swept into a small mocking bow. “Thank you for your time Mr. Stark I hope I’ll see some new parts soon?”

The man waved her away, fiddling with the device in his hand distractedly.

She marched out of the boardroom and he followed obediently behind.

* * *

**6 month later.**

“Okay and spread.”

He spread his new fingers, staring at his new arm in wonder.

“Touch your thumb to each fingertip.”

It was amazing, he could feel pressure without pain. He could breathe without pain.

“Okay clench as hard as you can.”

His fist was _strong_ , metal plates shifting. She fixed him. It had taken months and a lot of tweaking, but he didn’t hurt anymore.

The arm was as light as his own flesh. Shifting and moving without pain or thought.

She held his fingers in her small delicate hands. Checking for something.

He watched her face. It looked soft. He wondered what it felt like.

He twitched. That was a new recurring thought. She always took his pain, made him feel good, cared for. He was starting to wonder if he could do that too.

She looked up at him concerned with the twitch.

There hadn’t been punishment in months. And she never, ever hurt him. He shifted his new arm to cup her cheek. Slowly, carefully.

Her eyes widened and she inhaled sharply.

Her skin was soft under the touch sensors. Warm, and soft and he wanted to care for her in return.

He knew he had no memories. The others talked about it enough. As if loosing his memories made him deaf.

But he still had all his skills. It was like instinct. He knew what he could do if he thought about what he needed.

He had mistrusted that instinct sometimes. But feeling her soft skin under his hand he knew exactly what came next.

She didn’t resist him as he pulled her closer tilting down to capture her lips with his own.

The taste was like lightning down his spine. Familiar and strange and her hands curled in his t-shirt and he swallowed her gasp and plunged deeper into her mouth, chasing that familiar flavour as she pushed into it and kissed him back.

He let his instincts take control and his other hand skimmed down her side. Firm warm rounded flesh that he pulled against his body.

She moaned and pulled away slightly. “Wait, wait.”

He opened his eyes, not quite sure when he had closed them.

She swallowed and licked her lips. “Why?”

He frowned.

She shivered and pressed closer. “You don’t have to, you know that right? You don’t need to repay me for-“

He kissed her again to cut her off. She was a lowly weapon tech, she couldn’t command him to do this. “I want to.”

Her eyes closed and she shuddered again. “Okay.” she breathed and lunged up to claim his lips for herself.

Things got a little hazy after that. Warm skin and panting breaths. Endorphins running so high he was almost dizzy with them.

Her little gasps and moans of pleasure drove him to new heights as he discovered this was a skill he knew very well.

And laying back on the couch with her sweaty and naked draped across his own sweaty skin he knew. This? This was a skill he was going to _master_.


End file.
